Somewhere I Have Never Travelled
by Chibi Chiriko
Summary: Youji's letter to Omi; shounen ai; spoilers for the Dramatic Precious storyline
1. Default Chapter Title

_DISCLAIMERS: Weiß Kreuz © Koyasu Takehito, Project Weiß, Kyoko Tsuchiya, Bandai Music, Marine Entertainment and Animate Film. No copyright infringement intended. _

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[A non-existent letter written the morning before the final confrontation with Shion] 

Dear Omi, 

The things I'll be writing in this letter, besides those that concern the inevitable which is to come, are things I've been meaning to tell you for the longest time—things I never really had the courage to tell you before. It's funny, how taking death seriously makes you learn to take life and the people in it seriously. I'll probably be dead by the time you start reading this. Or if not _dead, _exactly (if not more dead than I already am), then I'll probably be in a place far, far away from you. Thinking about it, it's probably better that way. 

Weiß isn't gonna be holding out much longer, considering the way things are going now. It's strange, don't you think, how much weight the past has on the present. They keep saying time heals all wounds, that the past is in the past and that the bygones should be left as bygones, but it's really just a heap of bull. The present is nothing more than an extension of the past, a _result _of the past. Nothing ever really changes—things just become more clear as time passes, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything's _changed _significantly. When the world accepted Copernicus' theory of the sun being at the center of the solar system, it did not mean that that was the precise moment the earth started revolving around the sun. The earth's been revolving around the sun ever since; it was just discovered only around that time. Nothing really changed. Nothing ever really changes. People might grow, but they are still living in the same bodies as they did when they were first conceived. One might call himself by a different name, but that doesn't make him any different from the man he was before he started living under a new name. The same heart still beats within his ribcage, the same past still stretches out behind him, the same skeletons still overflow from his closet. 

It's so strange, it's amusing, is it not? A bunch of folks from the previous Weiß generation start wanting their original job back, and the new employees out of the way, and everything starts falling apart into dust. Or maybe it was nothing more than dust to begin with. Maybe the assassinations we did in the safe shadow of night were just our exuses for pathetic, dust-like living. 

I sound so gloomy, don't I? You're probably wondering why I'm saying these things, why I'm acting this way, why now of all times, why in this letter. You're probably thinking that the way I'm acting now is not like my normal self. Got some news for you, kid—this _is _my normal self. This _is _who I am, and "everybody's favorite Youji-kun" was just an act. It was fun, for a while. I could almost believe it to be true. It's so easy to be dazzled by these lovely illusions, these pretty distortions of reality. 

But illusions are illusions, no matter how 'realistic' they may appear to be. They are not reality, no matter how badly we would wish them to be—it's a sad fact of life, but it remains a _fact. _There is but one reality, and for me, it's a reality that takes the tangible form of a limp, lifeless corpse with short, blood-matted black hair and dead, unblinking eyes. A corpse that was once called Asuka. 

I might not know you that well. I've only lived with you for about three years, and in those three years, we've never had a real conversation. Time might pass that we may never get the opportunity for one again. But just because we haven't been speaking doesn't mean I haven't been listening. Your words, when we bicker, during those precious times I've always cherished (although I might not seem to), tell me everything. Your eyes, when they turn my way, express things words could never even begin to say. The things you do, the things you _don't _do, speak to me while your lips are silent. They let me know what I need to know about you. It's the only way I can find out more about you without disturbing your world anymore than life itself already has. 

Your soul tells me that what you want is that which we were banished from—the sanctity of normal living. Disturbing it each night when we don the cloaks of emotionless murderers has made you more in awe in it, has made you appreciate life more than those living it ever could. You cannot, unlike myself and Aya and Ken, restrict yourself to believing that this is the only life we can live, that the road ahead is a single path with no forks that lead to a better destination. Maybe that is because you have the advantage of youth; you young ones are oftentimes the more romantic ones when it comes to wistful dreams and fairy tale fantasies (which, in the end, wind up sustaining you when all is forsaken, all is lost). Or it could be because your loss of memory has led you to believe that yes, the past _can _be forgotten, that the predestined life ahead _can _be re-created or, if it is self-determined, _can _be lived as you wish. 

I wish I could be more like you. Hopeful, strong-willed, indomitable… but it is too late for me. Life has not intended for me to be like you—if it had, then you wouldn't be so special as you are now. I lost my youth ages ago, if ever I possessed it to begin with. My gentleness I threw away the moment I realized that a good and faithful, loyal loving heart leads you nowhere. I've long surrendered my chances of happiness, and once gone, they can never be retrieved. I've lost so much time. I don't have much left. And there's really nothing more to do, save finishing this letter. There really isn't much left to say. 

You feel that despite the weight of your sins, you still deserve a chance to be happy in the future. And I marvel at how you can forgive yourself so, how you can forgive yourself for killing your brother, for participating in the assassination of your own father. But they were evil people. I don't doubt that maybe a part of you loved them, but it couldn't have been bigger than the part of you that was terribly hurt by their having forsaken you when you were a child, the part of you that had no dear memory of them. 

After this mission, what's next? Who else is there to issue these missions which have become our sole reason for existing? Birman and Manx are dead, a terrible loss. Your dad's gone, and this guy who's our new Persia… I honestly don't know how long he'll last with Shion and Rindou around. The government will probably find out about us sooner or later and have us dispatched, if Shion doesn't finish us first. Either way, we don't have much longer to hold on. 

I don't know what you're going to do after this mission's done. I'm not even sure about what's going to happen to us. But I can't help feeling that there's this terrible doom awaiting us at the end of this tunnel where we're walking through with blindfolds. I don't want to go without telling you this, what I've been meaning to for what feels like eternity to me. 

I love you. I love everything about you. I love how nice your legs are whenever you show them off (consciously or not) in those revealingly short shorts of yours. I love the way you give flowers to crying girls who show up at the shop downstairs, and sometimes, foolishly, I wish I were one of them, so I'd know what it's like to receive flowers from you. I love the way you cook. I even love the way you yell at me when I'm slacking off. Heck, I just _love _you! And I've loved you ever since… well, ever since a damn long time. 

I don't really know why I love you, and I doubt I have much time to contemplate on the possible reasons with what few days we have. I don't know why, I just know that I _do, _and that's all that matters to me. I don't care if you don't understand what I feel, I don't care if you don't love me back, because all that's important to me in this world, all that's ever been important to me ever since you showed up in this damn dark life and made it a shade brighter, is that I love you. I don't deserve you, but dammit, I love you so much, I could almost changejust because of this crazy love. 

I know you're probably thinking that it's _Asuka _that I love, that I'm probably confusing you with her the way I did that time Aya first entered Weiß. But that's where you're wrong. I don't _love _Asuka. I stopped loving her a long time ago. I hate her, in fact, for everything she's done to me, for how she manages to hurt me even from beneath the grave. But she's been such a big part of my life—or at least, she used to be. She's still here inside me, even now that I've stopped caring for her. When you care for someone a great deal, even when they're gone, they're still there. They're still affecting your life in one way or another, whether you're aware of it or not, whether you want it or not. 

Please, hate me if you must, but believe me at least when I say I love you. Believe me because it's the truth. Believe me when I say I'll love you forever. And I do say it: I _will _love you forever, nothing's ever gonna change the way I feel about you now. When a man dies, that which he has in his heart at the moment of his death he will carry till forever is through. I have my love for you in my heart now, and I'll have it with me until I die, which probably wouldn't be too far from now. I _will _love you forever. 

If I write anything more, I'll start wetting this page with my tears. Do you know how long it's been since I last wept? Only _you _can make me cry this way again. The funny little things love can do to a man, really. 

Anyway, before I leave you with my goodbye, I'm copying out this poem for you. It's called _Somewhere I Have Never Travelled, _by E. E. Cummings. It's my favorite love poem, and it conveys what I feel about love and about you better than my own words could ever do. 

_Somewhere I Have Never Travelled _

_ _

_somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond_

_any experience,your eyes have their silence:_

_in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,_

_or which i cannot touch because they are too near_

_ _

_your slightest look easily will unclose me_

_though i have closed myself as fingers,_

_you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens_

_(touching skillfully,mysteriously)her first rose_

_ _

_or if your wish be to close me,i and_

_my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,_

_as when the heart of this flower imagines_

_the snow carefully everywhere descending;_

_ _

_nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals_

_the power of your intense fragility:whose texture_

_compels me with the colour of its countries,_

_rendering death and forever with each breathing_

_ _

_(i do not know what is is about you that closes_

_and opens;only something in me understands_

_the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)_

_nobody, not even the rain,has such small hands_

_ _

Take care always. Wish I could say, "Until next time." Goodbye. 

With love, 

Youji-kun 

~*~*~*~

Fin: 10/25/2K

11:40 p.m. 

Retouched: 10/26/2K

11:30 a.m. 

~*~*~*~ 

_Somewhere I Have Never Travelled ~ A Love Letter from Youji, _by [Chibi Chiriko][1]

   [1]: mailto:eichinkukai@hotmail.com



	2. Default Chapter Title

_DISCLAIMERS: Weiß Kreuz belongs to Koyasu Takehito, Project Weiß, Kyoko Tsuchiya, Bandai Music, Marine Entertainment and Animate Film. No copyright infringement intended. _

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~*~*~*~

The fire slowly dies in the hearth as I finish reading the letter. As I rise to my feet, I quietly put it away, and it is then that I realize that my knees are shaking. No, not just my knees, but my whole body as well. It trembles, and suddenly, the whole room is cold, as though a window has been carelessly left open for the draft to come in. But all the windows are supposed to be shut tight—I'd made sure of that earlier, thinking of Ojiisan's health. 

I take a deep breath; it does nothing to soothe me, and my shivering does not cease. There's a loud rushing sound in my ears, and almost desperately, I find myself stumbling into the bathroom across the hallway. The darkness away from the fading firelight is almost a relief, I discover, and I turn on the tap and splash water on my face. The water is cold, ice liquid on ice skin, yet I keep washing my face until the whole floor is splattered with water, and my clothes are damp. I look at my reflection in the mirror, and see through the darkness the distressing pallor of my face, the devastation in my eyes. Ashamed of what I see, I turn away. 

Ojiisan is waiting outside. I did not anticipate his coming. Had I really been in the bathroom for _that _long? I stare at him on his wheelchair, and he stares at me with a sad, weary expression on his face. He looks so old, so terribly tired, and something inside me crumbles upon my taking notice. 

"O-Ojiisan," I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself. 

"You're wet," he says, almost dryly. His gaze does not leave me. 

I say nothing. I look away; gazing at him is too painful. I don't know why, but the tears suddenly form at the corner of my eyes, and it takes extraordinary strength to just keep them there. 

He seems to notice; he might be old, but he is still a Takatori, with the legendary sharp, eagle eyes. I feel shameful for having been caught in such an unmanly predicament. 

"Because of this?" he queries softly, and my heart gives an extra hard beat when I turn and see the letter—Youji-kun's letter—in his palm. 

I am too anguished to feel angry that he has read something private of mine. "Ojiisan…" 

I am struck by a sudden, desperate decision. "Ojiisan, I must go back."

He sighs loudly, almost irritatedly, and it is a sad, forlorn sound. "Must you, now?" he murmurs, head falling back. "Oh, Mamoru." 

"Ojiisan, _please," _I beg, my heart pounding. "You _have_ to let me go, please, just this once. I can't—"

A sob erupts forth from my throat. I cannot help it. The tears start to overflow from my eyes, washing down my cheeks. And I turn my back on him, not wishing him to see these naked emotions taking tangible form. I am not used to people seeing what only _I _used to see. 

I start when I feel the light weight of his hand on my shoulder. I draw in as much air as I can, and try to contain my sobs. I feel the whiskers on his wrinkled face nuzzle my nape, and the skin there tingles eerily. His hand finds mine, and something small, thin and hard presses into my palm. I look up, into his face, and see utter resignation written all over his ancient features. 

"Go," he whispers in my ear, his voice sounding strangely like a suppressed sob. "But please, just come back." 

His hand falls from my shoulder. It is so quiet, I can distinguish my own breathing from his loud, uneven struggling for breaths. I glance down at my hand and see the key to my motorcycle. I look over my shoulder, back at him, and I try vainly to smile, for his sake. But I cannot muster a smile, and I can barely see his face through moist, blurred eyes, and, hurriedly jerking my head away, I run from the room, unable to even say thank you. Suddenly, I can't stand to be here. 

A few minutes later, I am racing against the wind, against time, against the near-invisible moon in the night. The helmet sits more heavily on my head, the wind's blades are sharper as they scrape my skin. My bike seems to be moving at a dragging pace, even though the speedometer says I'm breaking speed limits. The highway is deserted, the hour is late. And I cling desperately to my bike like I'm drowning, praying under my breath, heading toward what I fear will already be a graveyard when I get there. 

~*~*~*~ 

As soon as the island Yokosuka comes into view, I accelerate the speed of the motorboat. I don't have much experience manipulating the controls of water vehicles, but thankfully, the territorial waters are calm and cooperative tonight. Yet not even in that small relief can I find comfort—I'm so scared, it's a wonder I haven't completely lost it yet. I frantically kill the engine and jump off the boat even before its hull touches the shore. A cold, cramping ache crawls up my legs as my feet crash against the coarse sand beneath the dark waters off the bay, but I try to ignore it as I rush toward the land. 

The sky is still very dark, and in my impulsiveness, I had forgotten to bring a flashlight. I curse softly as I run blindly upon the sand, desperate to find them. I listen closely for any indication of their presence, dying to cry out their names, but swallowing the urge, knowing I might only distract them. My prayers grow more feverish. 

Maybe there _is _a God, because when I had all but sank to my knees in grieving surrender, it is that precise moment that I catch a glimpse of a tall, thin figure standing in the distance, silhouetted against the sky. My heart starts beating faster, and I dare to hope. My fingers clench in my pocket as I run, and I wish my legs could take me there faster. My eyes sting with tears. A great weakness comes over me, and I suddenly feel totally wasted, but I press on, a sob rising in my throat. Please… please… 

I suddenly freeze in my steps when I am close enough. I did not notice earlier the bodies on the ground. I did not see that there was so much blood. A chilling dread touches my body, and I start trembling. It is almost like the first time I saw death in all its bare honesty. As I step closer, I recognize the two figures lying prostrate and unmoving on the sand. Youji-kun… Ken-kun… and another… Shion's corpse… 

I do not realize that I've been crying. I do not realize I've been whispering, "No, no" all over again, until the lone figure still standing hears me and turns. I look up, sobbing, into Aya-kun's face. And I almost do not recognize it. His eyes are filled with a cold, stark hollowness, his expression one of utter devastation. This is clearly not the Aya-kun I know, our stoic, dispassionate Abyssinian who _never _let anything faze him. 

"Aya-kun," I whisper, weeping. "Aya-kun, what _happened? _Why?" 

He says something in a low voice, but I do not catch it. Suddenly, he collapses, and I rush forward to break his fall. All at once, he's in my arms, barely gripping consciousness. His skin is a chilling white, drenched with icy sweat and fresh blood. His face is pinched with pain, and by the looks of it, it is as though every tiny breath he takes causes him excruciating agony. It kills me, to see my teammate in such pain. But he can't… this can't be the end… 

"Aya-kun," I sob, holding him close, but not too tight, I don't want to hurt him even more. "I'm sorry—I'm so sorry! I should have been here… should have been here…" 

He mumbles something, and I bend closer to hear it. My heart breaks at his words. 

"Omi… it's over… it's all over, everything…" 

"No," I reply desperately, "no, it can't—Aya-kun, please, hold on. Please, don't go, don't go." I cannot seem to stop crying. "Just a little longer, Aya-kun… okay? Just a little longer, _please." _I squeeze his hand, and hope he will listen. I'm being selfish again, I know—trying determinedly to keep him alive when death would give him the rest he has needed for a long, long time. But I don't want him to die having wasted his life! 

Again, he mutters something I can't hear, then his eyes close. I hold my breath, afraid for him. But he still breathes in my embrace. He is unconscious, but still holding on. Gently, I lay him on the ground, careful not to cause any more damage. 

Slowly, I rise to my feet. The air is less chilly, and the darkness of the sky seems to be receding. I'm overcome by a dizzying weariness, and there is nothing more I would like to do than lie down on the sand and sink into an endless sleep. But I can't. I look at my three friends motionless on the ground, and at the man who died in this last battle. I am suddenly filled with helplessness. There are three of them who need professional medical help, and we are stranded on an island. How can I possibly get them to a safe place all by myself, without causing graver injury or risking their safety? No—it is impossible, simply so. There is nothing more I can do for them.

Why did I still come? 

I fall weakly to my knees and beat my palms on the sand, sobbing angrily. And then, a glaring light suddenly falls over me. I look up, surprised. I see two ambulances in the distance, and men with flashlights running. Stunned, and not understanding, I sit back on my heels and stare dumbly. 

"You!" A finger is pointed at me, and I find myself looking at a man dressed like a coast guard, with steely gray eyes and a bushy mustache. "Are you Takatori Mamoru?"

"Yes, sir," I stammer. 

"Come, then," he says, helping me up. "Your ojiisan telephoned me and sent the ambulances over to help you and your friends. We'll be taking you four to the local hospital." His tone becomes lighter, gentler. "You're safe now, kid." 

The relief, the gratefulness, is so overwhelming that I drop unconscious on the spot. 

~*~*~*~ 

The last thing I remembered was seeing Aya fall. The last thing I heard was Ken's voice, along with my own, crying out his name… and like always, he didn't seem to hear, or if he heard, he didn't listen. I had no idea if he got up after that. Not long after, I, too, had fallen, and I stayed down.

Next thing I knew, it was pure agony screeching like a car's tires in my nerves as I shifted very, very slightly. I'd awakened before opening my eyes, and damn, the pain came crashing down on me at that precise moment I'd regained consciousness. I inhaled sharply, only to feel a sharp burst of piercing anguish stab my lung area. Damn, I'd forgotten about that broken rib. Ohh, it hurt terribly. Maybe I shouldn't breathe at all. Good Youji-kun, just keep your eyes closed and let's don't move, don't breathe, don't say nothing and everything's gonna be peachy. Sound good? 

I must be going nuts. To find humor in such… a situation. I was tempted to laugh, but I caught myself in time, remembering that I probably couldn't so much as let out a hiccup without having fire ravage my guts. Nope, not a good idea, not at all, nope. 

Now. Where was I? I didn't know. Well, I wasn't lying down on sand, 'cause if I were, then I'd probably still be in la-la land. Coarse grains and open wounds are… well… you get the picture. You wouldn't want to stay awake. You couldn't, anyway. The terrible pain would put you to sleep quicker than, um, Muhammad Ali's punch. I still _felt _my injuries, but I couldn't really feel the blood anymore—it was as though they'd been washed and properly dressed. Whatever was beneath me was thankfully soft and almost comfortable; was that a pillow underneath my head? A thick sheet of cloth covered my bare chest—a blanket, most likely. My right hand seemed to be tied to something small and hard and flat: wood, from the feel of it. And I could tell there were some… long things attached to the back of my palm, because of the slight—though thankfully painless—pressure I felt on that hand. 

My ancient P.I. instincts kicked in, and I didn't have to open my eyes to figure out that I was in a hospital room. I could already imagine the desk across the bed, the handy phone sitting on the bedside table, the blinding white light glaring down at me from the ceiling, all those tubes and stuff letting all sorts of intravenous liquids into my body through the needle in my vein. I _hate _hospitals. They made me feel like I belonged here, and it's a freaky feeling, sometimes. 

I also didn't have to open my eyes to figure out that someone else was in the room. And I didn't have to open my eyes to be able to tell that that someone else was not a nurse, or a doctor. 

The sniffles were what helped me pinpoint the Other Person's identity. It's funny, how you can identify somebody by the sniffles. Only works with people you know, though. And when I heard them, I _knew, _and my heart suddenly started beating faster. 

I could hear his breathing—it suddenly made me feel helpless, vulnerable. Gods, the sound of his breathing—like the sobs of a huge, irresistible teddy bear—they made me _want _him. I _had _to be losing it, sweet Lord, I was practically _dying _here and I wanted him. Wanted, wanted, wanted. A cold trickle of sweat formed on my forehead, and I licked my lips nervously. I would have spoken, but I didn't know what to say. My throat was dry. 

I heard him take a deep breath, I heard the rustle of his clothes while he moved, the movement of his feet across the tiles. There was the distinct sound of paper being clenched and unclenched in his restless fist. Dammit, he was _killing _me! I fought to keep my eyes shut, pretend I was asleep, pretend I didn't know he was there, and maybe he'd go away, maybe… 

I knew I was a hopeless case when I heard his voice break the stillness. "Youji-kun?" he asked softly, his voice low, his tone almost confiding. There was the trace of tears in it, and I sighed inwardly. Irresistible teddy bear, indeed. 

_Yadayadayadayadayada… _

"Youji-kun, are you awake?" he went on, not listening to my silent plea for him to stop tempting me like this. A hint of desperation crept into his voice, and I winced. "Please… you're awake, aren't you? Youji-kun?" 

I felt him move closer, and I thanked whatever Gods may be that there were tubes and whatsoever contraptions about me, that at least I was _restrained _in some way. Shit. What was he _doing _to me? Didn't you read what I wrote, boy, isn't it obvious from the way I'm looking right now how I feel and what I can do? Damn stubborn kid! 

Okay, fine, did he want an answer? Fine! I didn't have to look at him, did I? The letter had to be enough explanation. 

"Yeah," I said, my voice sounding a little too loud as it came out. It surprised me, a little. "Yeah, I'm awake." I exhaled thickly, and it was the wrong thing to do, because my ribs felt as though they were being crunched again. 

"Thank God," he gasped, and oh, I just _had _to look. But I forced myself not to. Not even a peek. 

"I was…" He was fumbling for words. It was amusing, in a weird way, because back then, he forever seemed to be coming up with the snappy comebacks before I even finished what I was saying. Ah, the past, it seemed too long ago, too far away. To be thinking like this… I've got to be growing old. Feel me for whiskers. "I was so worried. Youji-kun." 

Worried… about me? 

"I read the letter." He was speaking again. But not to me, it seemed—it sounded more like he was talking to himself, like he were trying to put the pieces of some emotional puzzle together. "I… I…"

I listened intently. From the ragged sound of his breathing, it sounded as though he were trying passionately to hold back his sobs. And I suddenly wanted to hug him. Hug him like he'd never been hugged before, tell him he could say anything, everything, and all would be fine. But I held myself back from doing so. 

"Why didn't you _tell _me?" he demanded, in a whisper, though it sounded to me like he was screaming at the top of his lungs. Distress filled his tone. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" 

Tell him what?

"I never knew you were in love with me!" 

My mouth hung open in shock, and before I could stop myself, I surrendered to the devil's mockery and opened my eyes. 

He looked shocked, too, to see that I had finally given in and looked at him. My heart ached at what I saw. Oh, Jesus, he was beautiful, as always. He was dressed only in a thick, fluffy royal blue yukata, and I could see a tantalizing bit of his chest, pale and hairless. His fingers were clasped together almost prayerfully at his waist, wringing his fists with my letter clutched helplessly in his grasp. His ash blond hair was disheveled, as though he'd just gotten up from a long, restless sleep. His face was pale, weary, his blue eyes were wide and soft and full of suppressed tears. Our surprised gazes met, and those tears started to slip down his cheeks. 

He was so close. I wanted to touch him, brush those tears away. 

I chuckled quietly, bitterly, and oh, my poor ribs. "You didn't know?" I repeated, almost disbelievingly. "And here I was, afraid it was too damn obvious. Here I was thinking maybe you suspected and hated me for it—while you were oblivious to the truth all along! How could you miss it?" 

He began to sob, and his rear fell gently on the bed for support. The slight disturbance sent throbbing shoots up my leg, but this time, I barely noticed. My heart was too loud in reminding me of his tantalizing presence. I wanted to tell it to shut up. 

"Forgive me, Youji-kun," he begged, gazing at me pleadingly, making me melt and look away, afraid of what he might read in my eyes. "I'm sorry—I'm so sorry! I've been so selfish…"

I didn't expect that. I grunted in surprise. 

"All this time, I've been so selfish," he sobbed. "I was too busy with myself, it had to be all about me. I resented the people we protected with each nightly kill, resented them for being _protected, _while there was no one to protect _me. _Oh, I didn't show it, but the resentment was always there, the envy. To be able to go to sleep every night and dream sweet dreams, and not have to worry about filling up a mission file or meet the corpses of those who were murdered in nightmares, to have nothing to worry about each day save what to cook for breakfast and that school will be starting in two minutes, to not have to _know _what I know—I wanted that so badly, more than anything, and it was a stupid, foolish desire, because it was the one thing I could never have, but that didn't stop me from wanting it. I hated myself for not having the right the three of you had—the right to remember what it is it exactly that made us what we are… you all had your reasons, but I didn't even know mine, save that I've been doing it for as long as I can remember. All of you, how you must have wanted _not _to remember, while I wanted desperately to remember. And oh, how I kept thinking of tomorrow, dreaming about it, waiting for it because that was all I ever had to wait for, all I could ever hope to call mine. That was my dream, the future—I was so precoccupied with it that I forgot to give some attention to what's _here, _what's _now." _He cried harder. "Listen to me… I don't even know what I'm talking about!" His whole body was shaking now. "Youji-kun! Can you ever forgive me, please… please…"

I was stunned. I really didn't know what to say. But there was only one thing I wanted to know. 

"Omi," I said softly, as gently as I could. "Do you love me?"

He paused; he shifted his gaze toward me. He looked so young, so vulnerable. 

"Tell me the truth!" I added hastily. "Omi, don't lie to me. I wanted lies from Asuka, and I got them." I sighed deeply, and even though it hurt, I accepted the pain graciously, feeling I deserved it. "I didn't know if I could bear it if she told me anything other than that she loved me, and that she always wanted to be with me. I let myself be deceived. I don't want it to be that way between us, Omi. What you offer, or what you withold, I want it to be done freely. Please, answer me honestly. I was more honest than I'd ever been in my life when I told you I loved you."

As painful as it was, I forced myself to look him in the eye. I was trembling, too. The room was suddenly cold. 

His face was stricken when he answered in a helpless tone:

"I don't know if I love you, Youji-kun."

I felt my heart shatter quietly. 

"I—I see," I muttered, still stunned from the blow. I quickly looked away. I knew he was suffering, I didn't want to see the suffering on his face. I was suffering, too, but I knew I suffered alone. And I still wanted him. Terribly. 

I wanted to die. 

And then it hit me. Who was I trying to kid? The people I loved—I only loved them for as long as there was a chance they could love me back. And when the time for those chances ran out, so would my love for them. And I realized, how could I have called it love? That wasn't love! That was only obsession, a hopeless, tragic obsession—beautiful, but empty, and it wasn't love. Like a flame struggling to stay alive in the smothering darkness, this sick obsession was nothing more than a desperate pursuit to get something out of the object of desire, and when nothing more could be given, or when there was no longer any chance for anything to be taken, it would eventually burn out. 

Love—I'm no expert in it or anything, but something in me told me it wasn't supposed to be like that. Love was supposed to be offered and taken freely—that was the painful part of it. You could love someone so dearly and passionately, and they might never recognize your feelings for them. It's obsession, too, in a way. The only difference, I realized at that moment, was that with love, you didn't care. You didn't care if they loved you back or not. You didn't care if it was "wrong" to be feeling this way. You loved them, and you'd continue to love them however way you can, and that's the only thing that really matters. 

I gazed at the boy sitting on the bed before me, still weeping, and I didn't know whether he was crying for himself, or for me. And I learned that I really didn't care whom the tears were for. All I wanted was for him to stop suffering. Stop crying. Stop feeling sorry. Omi was too young to suffer like this, to cry this way. When I was seventeen, I don't think I ever cried. 

I reached out and lightly touched his face. He gasped, and looked up at me, a slight doubt rising in his eyes. I smiled, telling him quietly he had nothing to fear. I wiped the tears away with my fingers, and combed his soft, golden hair away from his eyes.

"You've really got to stop crying, kid," I murmured, my hand still lingering on his face. I was still reluctant to let go. "You're gonna ruin your beautiful face that way, not to mention those beautiful eyes. Oh, and don't start again," I added, feeling his lower lip quiver beneath my fingertips. 

And even though it hurt me to do so, I leaned forward—crunching ribs and all—to whisper in his ear. I felt him tremble as I leaned close, and oh, it was all I could do to resist the overwhelming urge to crush his slender body under mine and hold him forever. I could have kissed him then, his earlobe was scant inches from my lips. But all I did was reassure him, in a hushed voice:

"It's all right."

_You needn't be sorry anymore. _

I think he understood, and he nodded. He was staring at me, but I wasn't staring at him anymore. I didn't have to look at him to know what he was feeling. And I believed my own words, that it was all right. 

Omi, you're a smart fellow, you'd understand. You know I still love you, you know I won't stop loving you just because you don't think you love me. 

But you don't have to worry about a single thing. I'm not gonna try and make you love me. I'm not gonna peek on you when you're taking a bath, I'm not gonna try and steal a midnight kiss from you in your bedroom. I'm not gonna send you any more love letters to trouble you. 

But I'll still continue to love you, in my own way. And if you ever feel alone or uncared for or unloved, if you ever feel the need to be loved by someone who finally understands what the word means, come to me. You know where to find me, and for you, always for you, I'll be there. 

Tsukiyono Omi, I'll love you forever. Count on it. 

~*~*~*~

October 28th, 2000 – October 29th, 2000

Around 11:40 p.m. 

Retouched: October 30th, 2000

Around 3:00 p.m. 

~*~*~*~ 

_Somewhere I Have Never Travelled II: Whether or Not _

By [Chibi Chiriko][1]

~*~*~*~

Thank you for reading! ^_^ 

   [1]: mailto:eichinkukai@hotmail.com



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